Marquesses at the Masquerade(6)

Mrs. Barton tugged off a sleeve. “I don’t think revenge is a good reason to go to a ball. Or,” Rosamund cleared her throat meaningfully, “a very Christian one.”

“As the authority on matters Christian in the Outer Reaches,” Uncle Piggott said, reaching blindly for the pipe on his bedside table as he kept his other hand over his eyes, “I deem revenge to be an excellent reason to go to a ball, particularly in this case. But it’s not the main reason you’re going. Mrs. Barton has it on good authority that there will be not one but three marquesses at the ball.” He knocked a book on the floor but finally lighted on his pipe. “Not that the Marquess of Boxhaven would not be enough to entice a young woman to a ball. I was at a dinner at which he was present ten years ago, and none of the rest of the gentlemen in the room could gain the attention of a single woman.”

“Uncle!” Rosamund said. “You once had dinner with the Marquess of Boxhaven? Why didn’t you ever tell me?”

He chuckled and wedged his unlit pipe in the corner of his mouth. “Piqued your interest, didn’t I? He has a younger brother as well, who will likely be at the ball. You could do worse than attract the attention of the younger brother of a marquess.”

Rosamund could only blink, feeling lightheaded. “I should count myself lucky even to glimpse the younger son of a marquess.”

Mrs. Barton held up the dress.

A little gasp escaped Rosamund. Uncle Piggott chuckled. “Our Mrs. Barton did well, didn’t she? Hurry up and put the thing on so I can see.”

If the sea under moonlight could be captured, this was what it would look like. Blue satin cascaded in soft ripples and glimmered with silver lace and scatterings of embroidered flowers done in silver thread. Tiny crystals here and there twinkled, completing the impression that the gown was pure enchantment.

“Where did you get this?” Rosamund breathed.

“A castoff from a previous employer,” Mrs. Barton said. “It would never fit me”—this was surely true, as Mrs. Barton was tiny and the dress looked to be about the size of Rosamund’s taller frame—“and I don’t have a ball invitation. But you do, Miss Rosamund.”

“I can’t wear this,” Rosamund said.

“Of course you can.” Mrs. Barton smiled. “And nothing would delight me more than to send you to that ball dressed as you ought to be.”

Standing there in just her chemise, Rosamund felt her eyes begin to mist. She sniffed.

“None of that, Rosamund,” Uncle Piggott said with mock sternness. “You’ll end up with red eyes, and take it from me: Gentlemen are leery of ladies with red eyes.”

“What if someone recognizes me?”

“It’s a masquerade,” he reminded her. “You’ll have a mask, and since Melinda has kept you hidden all these years, it’s not as if anyone there will know you.”

“But what if I see Melinda or my cousins?”

“They would never expect to see you there, and so they won’t. Now, do you want to go to this ball or not?”

“Yes,” Rosamund whispered fiercely. “Yes, I do.”

“Then there’s no time to waste.”

They had thought of everything. In addition to the dress and a fresh petticoat, there were ribbons for Rosamund’s hair and a pair of slightly worn dancing shoes with paste jewels.

“Where did you get them?” Rosamund asked in wonder.

“I had a few shillings lying about, and Mrs. Barton found them at the market.” Uncle Piggott held up a hand as Rosamund looked dismayed. “And before you go into hysterics of concern about the state of my purse, consider that I am an old man, and if I want to spend a few shillings on my favorite young lady, I ought to be allowed that pleasure.”

“Then I won’t say anything but thank you,” she said as she slipped into the shoes. Miraculously, they fit, which seemed just right, because already this night seemed like some kind of enchantment had befallen her.

She was to go in the family coach, which would take her the five blocks to Boxhaven House and bring her home at midnight, well before the time when Melinda and her daughters would wish to return. She’d been concerned about involving John Coachman in this plan, but Mrs. Barton had assured her that he, along with all the servants, was in support of the plan.

Right before Uncle Piggott sent Rosamund down to the waiting coach, he gestured to Mrs. Barton, who produced a beautiful strand of pearls.

“Are those… my mother’s pearls?”

“Of course,” he said. “What else would you wear to the ball?”

“But Melinda—”

“Had no right to take them from you.”

It had been the hardest moment after a succession of hard times. When she’d arrived at the Monroes’ house after the wrenching months of her mother’s final illness, Melinda had told her, “You shall be given a chance to make up for all the trouble your arrival is causing and all that is being provided to you.”

“Of course, Aunt,” she’d said. “I shall be happy to be of any help.”

Melinda had held out her hand. “The pearls, if you please.”

“Excuse me?”

“The pearls,” Melinda had said impatiently. “They should never have been given to your mother.”